


The Dreamer's Road

by Delanach, seleneheart



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blanket Permission, Drug Use, M/M, Mysticism, Post-Season/Series 03, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-09 07:11:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18633325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delanach/pseuds/Delanach, https://archiveofourown.org/users/seleneheart/pseuds/seleneheart
Summary: After getting Dean out of Hell, Sam will try anything to fix what's broken in his brother.





	The Dreamer's Road

The sun beat down, hot and relentless, on the cars in Bobby Singer's salvage yard. Most of them were beyond repair, good only for stripping out any useable parts and scrapping the metal but some, given enough time and attention, would run again. Those were the ones Dean liked best. He didn't enjoy pulling the insides of broken and battered cars and trucks apart unless it was to help put another one back together. When he found one he knew he could repair, he'd work on it night and day until it was done.

Bobby was happy to leave him to it, bringing him the odd cold beer as he worked, helping out with the heavier work when needed and making sure Dean didn't starve because once he was focused on a car, Dean practically forgot the rest of the world existed.

And Sam? Well, Sam mostly spent his days researching since he'd pulled Dean out of hell. Researching ways to fix Dean. But Dean wasn't a car or a truck that could be fixed by replacing a gear box cover or cleaning out the carburetor. He was broken in other ways, ways he could only forget about when he was fixing something else. So he left the research to Sam, unwilling to talk about it anymore than was necessary to keep Sam off his back. Sam was convinced that somewhere out there someone would be able to help him, but Dean knew better. No-one could help him. There weren't group therapy sessions for people who'd been to hell and made it back out again. He was unique, and in that respect, he was alone. Funny, because that was the one thing he could never stand, being alone, but now?

Dean knew he wasn't really alone, he still had Sam, but as time went by, Dean watched the change in Sam's eyes when he looked at Dean. Dean knew he wasn't what he had been, wasn't the same man who Sam had risked everything to save.

At first, the nightmares had shocked Sam, the screaming and the way Dean would be lost so far inside them that he never knew if this time would be the time he couldn't pull him out again, if this time, he'd finally lose Dean forever. But as the weeks passed, Dean saw the change in Sam. The terror faded fast now, to be replaced by a resigned sadness that hung around him, heavy and draining, when he had to deal with his broken brother.

Dean dreaded the day when Sam would decide he'd had enough, would turn away from him and leave. It was inevitable, Dean knew. He wasn't the brother Sam loved anymore, he wasn't strong enough to fight the invisible enemy that just wouldn't leave him be, and if he wasn't strong enough to overcome that, how could he ever be strong enough to be there for Sammy again? He'd had one job, to look after Sam, to keep him safe, and he kept screwing it up. And Dean knew that when the day came, when Sam walked out of the door and didn't come back, he wouldn't survive it.

But he didn't think on these things while he was working on a car. 

The only sound to be heard in the yard was the snick, snick, snick of the socket wrench as Dean unloosened the bolts holding down the head cover of an Impala. She wasn't the same year as his baby, not the same color either, but she was familiar territory and he knew within minutes of lifting the hood that she could be repaired. The familiarity lingered as he worked and memories that didn't hurt so much tugged at the edges of his thoughts.

Memories of other long hot days spent in the same yard. He'd had two willing teachers in Bobby and his Dad, who, when time allowed, spent hours showing him round one engine compartment or another, explaining how everything was connected, how everything worked. Dean picked it up fast, just like any other useful skill he was taught. Taking care of guns and knives and all manner of weapons was something else he was good at from far too early an age as was first aid. His skills would have made a field medic proud.

And he had one unwilling student in Sam. His brother would bring him cold sodas as he worked, and Dean would do his best to pass on his newest mechanical skills, but Sam was never really interested. He would hang out with Dean, though, let him talk all he wanted and then ask random questions that had nothing to do with engines or cars.

Where was Dad? Why couldn't they live in a real house all the time like uncle Bobby did? Why did uncle Bobby have all those books with weird symbols in them? How had Dean really broken his arm last summer?

It was a huge relief to Dean when Sam got old enough to tell him the truth. A relief and a revelation because then he had someone to talk to about all the secret stuff, the weapons and the hunting, even though his first and foremost instinct was to keep Sam as far away as possible from it all in case he got hurt or worse. Sam was the only permanent thing in Dean's life, what with Dad taking off whenever he needed to, and them moving around so much that Dean gave up on trying to make real friends at the age of six. So Dean's every instinct was to keep Sam alive and safe.

Dean was brought out of his thoughts by the throaty purr of his Impala getting louder as it turned onto the track down to Bobby’s place, the sound carrying in the still air. Dean’s hand stilled momentarily on the engine as the sound got closer, but he stayed where he was and went back to work, knowing Sam would come and find him

 

“Hey Bobby.” Sam got out of the car, stretching his legs as the older hunter walked towards him from the shade of the porch.

“Hey Sam. Did you get to speak to the professor?”

Sam nodded, and grabbed his bag from the seat.

“Yeah, I did but it was a bust. Recommended a couple of good counselors that specialize in post traumatic stress disorder, but that's not gonna work. Those studies I read about with the mushrooms aren’t going to admit Dean as a subject because we can’t document what caused his stress. The government keeps too tight a lid on it because it’s so they’re afraid it’ll cause a drug epidemic.” Sam looked at Bobby. “How is he?”

“Still the same. He got that old truck running again, but he’s still not sleeping.” Bobby stepped forward and took the bag from Sam’s hand, pressing two cold cans of soda into it instead. “Let me take that in. You go talk to your brother.”

“Thanks Bobby.” Sam turned to go.

"And Sam? I might have a lead on what you were working on before you left. I'll be in the kitchen when you get back." 

"Okay, that's great, Bobby." Sam's spirits lifted just a little.

It wasn’t hard to find Dean. The yard was quiet apart from the small sound of metal on metal coming from a spot near the old barn. Sam saw him, bent over the engine compartment of his latest project, and stopped.

The beard was back, about a week’s growth if Sam wasn’t mistaken. Exactly the length of time he’d been away. Dean didn’t look in mirrors anymore, so shaving was one of the few things he let Sam do for him. The long sleeved t-shirt he was wearing despite the heat was pushed up to his elbows but no further. Gone were the days he would have been stripped to the waist by now as he worked, too self conscious about the scars the hell-hounds left behind.

“Hey Dean.” Sam said quietly.

Dean started and dropped the wrench he’d been holding.

“S ...Sam, you’re back.” Dean turned to look at him. “Good trip?”

He took the offered soda and cracked it open, drinking half of it down in one go while Sam sipped his.

“Yeah, it was interesting. Not much use, though I think Bobby has a lead on something else."

Dean snorted.

“Sam, give it a rest, you're exhausted and I’m fine.”

Dean grinned at him, but the wide smile didn’t come close to reaching his eyes and the faint tremor of his hand on the wrench betrayed him.

“You’re not fine, Dean.” Sam was tired. He’d driven for hours and didn’t want to get into another argument, not now, and Dean’s brave face was wearing him down. “You’re not.”

Without another word, Sam turned and trudged back to the house. He flung himself into a chair at the kitchen table and looked at Bobby. 

“Please tell me you found some way to treat Dean?”

They had tried all the conventional treatments for PTSD, and none of them had worked, possibly because they were aimed at conventional sources of anxiety, like rape or war. None of them covered returning from Hell. Sam had burned the internet up looking for ideas and had stumbled across an article about psychiatrists using LSD and psilocybin to treat recalcitrant cases of PTSD. It seemed like the perfect solution for Dean.

His trip east had showed the futility of that hope. He was wondering how much longer the both of them could survive like this.

“Those mushroom studies put me in mind of some things I’d heard of a long time ago. Back in the seventies. When every other son of a bitch was looking for enlightenment.” Bobby took a pull of his beer, gathering his thoughts.

“I’ve been trying to track down the rumors while you’ve been gone. There’s a group of Navajo down in New Mexico, Dineh, they call themselves. They use the psychedelics the same way them doctors do. Spirit walking they call it. It’s a shamanistic ritual.”

Sam sat forward, excited. “Can you get in contact with them?”

Bobby shook his head. “The best I can find is they’re somewhere northwest of Chaco Canyon. I might make some calls, narrow it down, if you think you might go.”

“Yeah, okay.” It was a long shot, and one that he'd have the hardest time talking Dean into if it turned out to be an option. Shamanistic dream walking under the influence of magic mushrooms. Sam smiled, imagining Dean's best "Come again?" face if that was ever mentioned. 

Sam left Bobby to make his calls, heading straight to bed. He closed the curtains but stuck the lamp on that sat on the small table between their beds. Dean didn’t cope well with the dark, so it had become one of those things Sam did on auto pilot. He climbed wearily into bed and pulled a pillow over his head, falling asleep almost as soon as his eyes closed.

 

It was dusk by the time Dean headed to bed. He shared a beer with Bobby out on the porch first, and Bobby tentatively asked if he knew what Sam's latest research had found.

“Yeah, he mentioned it before he went.” Truth be told, Dean hadn't really been listening, especially once Sam had mentioned the mushrooms. He hadn’t expected anything to come of it and couldn’t be disappointed when nothing did. "He can't seriously think magic mushrooms are gonna help."

"Well, there's more to it than that.”

Dean sighed.

“Not having this conversation again, Bobby. I’m not interested.”

“Not interested in what? In getting better? In helping your brother?”

“There’s nothing wrong with me, I keep telling you both that. And why does Sam need my help?”

“Because he’s as broken as you are, son, and the only way to fix him is to let him fix you.”

“Sam’s not ... he’s fine, he’s okay.” Dean said stubbornly.

“He’s not, Dean. Sam watched the hellhounds tear you apart. When I found him, he was holding your dead body in his arms and he walked through fire to pull you out of there. He’s far from okay.”

They finished their beers in silence, and Dean headed up to the room he shared with Sam, feeling Bobby's eyes on his back as he left him on the porch.

Dean stared down at his sleeping brother. He took the pillow off his head and looked at him, seeing the dark circles under his eyes and the weary look on his face even in his sleep.

He reached down and pushed the hair back from Sam’s face, hating the tremor of his fingers as he did so. No, he wasn’t fine, but what the hell was he supposed to do? Let some guy poke around in his mind? Dean shook his head as if he’d said the words out loud. No, nobody got to see inside his head but him.

He sat down on the bed and gently touched Sam's fingers.

“Sammy, do you still love me?” He asked his sleeping brother.

Sam's fingers twitched against Dean's and Dean smiled sadly, imagining that Sam had said yes, of course he did, with those soulful eyes of his full of concern.

“Then why do you need so badly to fix me? You want the old Dean back, right? The strong one, the one who always looks out for you and who’s hands don’t shake?”

Dean swallowed back the tears that threatened and wrapped his fingers further around Sam's, looking away from him, unable to say the words directly to him even when he was fast asleep. 

“I can’t be him again, Sammy, I can’t go back. I don’t know how.” Dean bowed his head and his voice dropped to a whisper. "You deserve better than this, you deserve better than me. I'm sorry, Sammy. Sorry that I can't be what you need me to be."

Dean sat there for an hour, maybe more, until exhaustion caught up to him and he thought he might be able to sleep for a while. Wearily, he left Sam to go and lie on his own bed so he didn't disturb him if he woke, and curled up on his side, hugging a pillow to his chest.

 

Sam woke to the sound of frightened whimpering, disorientated after spending a handful of nights back in motel rooms, but quickly recognizing the familiar furniture in Bobby's spare room. The whimpering got louder and Sam was straight out of bed, cautiously approaching his brother.

Dean was crouched down in the far corner of the room, back to the wall, his hands shaking as he clawed at himself, his eyes wild and staring at something that existed only in his own head.

_... his heart pounded as they chased him, cackling and gleeful. A hook ripped into his back, tearing skin and muscle and he screamed, stumbling, twisting, anything to get away, to escape, to leave them behind, but the hook was buried too deep and one cruel tug brought him crashing down on his back, forcing the metal deeper, and they were on him, ragged claws ripping, teeth tearing strips of skin and flesh from his bones and he was beyond screaming, beyond anything but dying, but that was one thing he couldn't do, couldn't die, couldn't leave the torment behind, so he bled, his empty stomach heaving, writhing in an agony he hadn't known existed before now, before this and now it was all he knew, the lung bursting chase, the torment of capture, the pain of broken and twisted bones reforming, skin regrowing, his heart bursting in his chest only to restart with a wet thud and he knew, he knew that he didn't have limbs or flesh or eyes or bones anymore, knew it, but that knowledge meant nothing when they were tearing him apart, over and over, laughing, joyful at his abject despair, and all he could do was scream, scream for Sam, Sam who would come for him, had to come for him ..._

"Sam!!" Dean howled and tears ran down Sam's face, his hands twitching forward, holding back from touching his stricken brother because he knew from experience that it wasn't the best of ideas. So he talked through his tears, hoping Dean would hear him and follow his words home.

"Dean, come back to me, please, it's a dream, that's all. Dean, please, I can't lose you, not again ..."

In Dean's head, the dream changed.

_... the demon rounded on him, eyes black, gaze gleeful, and Dean was back in the pit, hooks deep in flesh, holding him as it approached, long, cruel claws on it’s hands, and Dean panicked, pulling and tugging on the chains that held him, tearing his own flesh in an effort to escape, but then Sam was there, demon killing knife in his hand and wrath in his eyes, burning hot and vengeful and as the knife slashed across the demon's throat, Dean sobbed with relief, but before he could say a word, his own demon self, eyes black and face still splattered with its own blood, was on Sam, wrestling the blade from his hands and grinning in triumph as it stabbed Sam through the heart again and again and again, his blood staining the demons hands and when Dean tore his eyes away from the scene, screaming for his brother, he looked up and saw Sam's blood dripping from his own fingers ..._

Dean screamed, eyes wide, fixed on Sam and Sam reached out for him, his fingers gentle on Dean's face.

Dean snapped, surging forward, his fists flying, knocking Sam onto his back. Sam's head hit the floor hard and his vision swam as he put up is arms to try to ward off the worst of the blows, but Dean was relentless, lashing out at the things that had tormented him, still tormented him. Sam howled in pain as Dean caught him on the side of his face and the room flooded with brighter light as Bobby was suddenly there, dragging Dean off Sam and pushing him away so hard he landed against the wall and woke up with a sickening start.

"Jesus, Sam." Bobby helped him up, wincing at the sight of the bruises blossoming on his face, wishing he'd gotten there quicker, but one thing Sam had insisted on was that he could deal with Dean himself, however bad the flashbacks got and he would yell for Bobby if he needed him.

Even as he was helping Sam to his feet, he was rolling his eyes at the damned stubbornness of all the Winchester men when it came to asking for help.

Sam insisted on checking that Dean was okay before he let Bobby take him downstairs to deal with the damage to his face. Dean stared back at Sam wide eyed and shied away from his touch, but Sam refused to leave him until he had acknowledged Sam and Sam knew he wasn't still lost and alone in his head.

Once Sam was gone, Dean didn't even attempt to sleep, not after that, and he point blank refused Bobby's help to clean his knuckles up. He couldn't get Sam's battered face out of his mind and he sat on the bed looking down at his hands in his lap for a long time until he had decided what he needed to do. 

 

Sam sat at the kitchen table nursing a coffee and staring out of the window into the yard. Bobby had taken the truck to pick up a car that had been in a wreck the day before, only leaving after Sam had reassured him he'd be fine being left alone with Dean. Sam sighed and sipped his coffee. It had been a while since Dean had reacted that badly to a dream, and even at his worst, he'd never done more than knock Sam out of the way or landed the odd punch, but nothing like that.

The sound of footsteps coming down the stairs startled Sam and he looked round to where Dean was now standing in the doorway to the kitchen. He looked freshly showered and there was no trace of the scruff of beard he'd been wearing the day before. Sam's brow furrowed when he realized Dean was carrying his old leather jacket, the one that'd been John's, and there was a packed bag by his feet.

"You shaved."

Dean nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"Are ... are you going somewhere?"

Dean just nodded again, his eyes full of pain, and Sam stared at him, cold fear gripping his heart.

"You don't have to leave, Dean, it was a nightmare, I know you didn't mean to ..."

"I'm sorry, Sammy," Dean interrupted. "Sorry I've been pushing you away and sorry I wouldn't let you help me."

"But Dean ..." Sam was on his feet and by Dean's side in an instant, reaching out to tentatively touch his hand.

"I can't let that happen again." Dean brushed the side of Sam's face with a feather light touch. "Never again." 

He took a step closer and kissed Sam’s cheek, something he hadn't done in years and he took strength from the way Sam let him touch.

"You've never given up on me, Sammy, even though I gave up on myself a long time ago. You rescued me from hell, dude, and I end up beating the crap out of you." A small sad smile quirked around Dean's mouth and a fragile hope filled Sam.

"So yeah, I'm leaving. With you. I'll go wherever you want me to go, see whichever freaky-assed healers you want me to see."

Sam grinned at him, but Dean's face grew serious again, anxious.

"I'm not ... I don't know if I'll ever be ..."

And it was Sam's turn to run a thumb along Dean's cheekbone, to kiss his forehead.

"You're my brother, Dean, nothing can ever change that. And that's all I need you to be. You took care of me my whole life, now it's my turn to take care of you, okay? It's what brothers do."

Dean nodded.

“Okay. So let’s do this.”

They had to park the Impala had the head of the canyon where the road died out. Which didn't matter anyway, because the road hadn't been on any map, not even on the USGS quadrangle map Sam had bought at the camping store in Gallup when they left I40. They hadn't seen another car for hours in this remote corner of New Mexico. The trail wound through piñon and juniper, giving off the scents of turpentine when they brushed the needles. Dean walked where he was told. After his initial resistance to the idea, he hadn't asked any questions when Sam had told him they were coming here in search of a cure.

The canyon dead-ended finally, just as Bobby said it would. The sun was already below the rim of the butte above them and Sam knew he would have to work quickly because Dean hated being alone in the dark. He located the northwest wall of the small dell and used a burnt stick to trace the design that Bobby had inked onto the back of their hands. He was careful to get the exact number of lines and dots.

_"Make sure Dean's amulet is visible. It was meant for John, but things have a way of working out the way they should. They'll recognize it.”_

Sam double-checked the sigil for accuracy and then came back to where Dean was huddled, his fears returning with the growing darkness. Bobby had cautioned them against fire, so he pulled the down sleeping bag closely around them. He put Dean in front of him, resting his back against the rock wall. After he made sure the amulet was out and Dean was comfortable, he tried to relax. The desert night was cold, a bone-deep cold. Sam tried not to shiver, tried not to disturb Dean's rest. He felt the moment when Dean let himself sleep. 

He had been going for months with steadily diminishing hope that Dean would ever be back to what he was. Part of Sam wondered if he shouldn't have let Dean go, let Dean move on. He was out of Hell, and Sam thought that maybe it had been selfish of him to insist that Dean return to life. Life had never been all that kind to Dean in the first place. 

Sam woke to a rock knife pressed against his throat, the black obsidian blade shining brightly in the early sunlight. Moving carefully, he pulled his left hand free of the bag, showing the back of it. The knife relaxed a fraction and Sam searched for Dean's hand with the matching the design.

The knife-wielder grunted and the knife shifted to Dean's neck. With his arms still around Dean, Sam could feel his brother's rising panic. Sam struggled with the protest forming behind his teeth at the same time putting a hand on Dean's shoulder in reassurance. He could feel that Dean was on the verge of a major freak out. However, the man merely used the knife tip to lift the lanyard holding Dean's amulet.

"This was meant for someone else."

"I know." Sam swallowed, old grief flooding back. "That one did not deserve it though. I gave to my brother instead. He . . . is worthy," Sam finished fiercely.

"I see."

The knife withdrew and Sam dared to look up. The man was in his mid-forties perhaps, wearing jeans and a concert T-shirt for Nine Inch Nails. He had a pair of cowboy boots that were scuffed up and nearly worn out at the heels. His black hair was cut short and only lightly grey.

“This hollow is sacred to our people since the rocks were young. It would be a desperate hunter indeed who would breach its sanctity.”

“Yes,” Sam agreed. ‘Desperate’ described him all too well. "Come on, Dean."

Sam helped Dean to his feet. The man stared curiously at his brother. "I am Harrison Nez Benally.”

“Uh, Sam Winchester. This is my brother, Dean.”

“What are you seeking?"

Where did he start? Bobby said the man was a shaman, so none of Sam's tale should surprise him. He couldn't bear to go into the details though, so he kept to the bare facts. "I died, and he bargained with the crossroads demon for me. He went to Hell. I got him out. But I think something in him is broken."

The man raised an eyebrow, his eyes searching both their faces. Sam thought that he probably saw two men, who should be young, but weren't anymore. Not after what they had seen.

"What do you want from me?"

Sam wanted to scream at him that he was Sam's last hope that Dean could be restored, but he forced himself to hold onto his temper. "Bobby Singer said that sometimes people like Dean can be helped by one of your rituals. With the mushrooms. Please, Mr. Benally."

Yeah, he could have found some 'shrooms from any number of street dealers, didn't have to do it this way. But the point wasn't to get high, the point was to give Dean back his life and whatever part of his soul was still suffering. Sam didn't know how to touch Dean's spirit and the psychiatrists who were studying the drugs wouldn’t take Dean. This shaman should be able to bring Dean back and make him whole.

Reaching out and cupping Dean's face, the shaman studied Dean. "You are right. He is worthy. The stars will be in good places tonight. Let's go get you prepared. And call me Nez."

Nez turned away, starting back down the trail.

"You? You mean him."

"No, you are his guide, so you must be ready also."

"Me?"

"Of course. He trusts you and the bond between you is deep and secure. Do you have the courage to walk the Dreamer’s Road with him?"

Sam had never thought of that, but there wasn't anything he wouldn't do for Dean, so if he had to go on this vision quest, too, that's what he would do. "Yes. Okay."

Dean followed without comment and another wave of grief arced through Sam. He missed his sarcastic obnoxious brother. It was so hard, having Dean here physically but without the shining personality that had always been an integral part of his brother. He hated seeing Dean so scared. This had to work. Sam couldn't let himself think about what things would be like for either himself or Dean if this state continued.

There was an early 70s Chevy step-side truck parked behind the Impala, the paint job looking like it had once been somewhere around pea soup green before the sun faded it. The door creaked as Nez got in. He spoke through the rolled-down windows, "Follow me back to the holding."

After barely a tenth of a mile on the paved road, they turned off onto a dirt track. Sam would never have thought it was any sort of a road because it was narrow and twisted among the rocks, but he pointed the Impala down it. Dean didn't object. They drove over a mile of bone-jarring ruts and rocks, which had Sam praying that the car's undercarriage would take the abuse. Finally, they passed through a large grove of cottonwoods and then pulled up in front of a weathered log house.

Nez led them around to the back of the house, where there was a small steam lodge. He showed Sam how to pour water over the rocks to release the steam using a hollowed out buffalo horn. “I will bring rocks as these cool. When you feel the steam, let go of your fears. You must fast today, drink only water, as much as you need. Purify your body and your spirit will follow. Do not fear tonight's task."

He hesitated a moment before he left and then stood in front of Dean. He waited for a long moment until Dean finally raised his eyes. "I see you, little brother. It will be well."

He turned to Sam. “I must warn you that he will never be what he once was.”

Something like a sob seemed to grow inside Sam’s chest, but he nodded. Of course not. Dean had faced mankind’s most ancient nightmare, had willingly allowed his soul to be sent to Hell. Of course Dean would never be the same after that.

“He will find himself again, though, with you beside him.”

And that would have to be enough.

Sam sprawled out on the dirt floor of the hut. The ceiling was too low for him to stand comfortably. As the desert day wore on, Sam found the heat nearly unbearable and removed his shirt early on. Dean seemed unmoved by it and Sam had the uncomfortable reminder that Dean had no doubt endured worse heat in the fires of Hell. Sweat trickled down Sam’s back, making him itch. He tried to find inner peace, but wanted to squirm instead.

“This will work, Dean,” he said at one point, but Dean seemed indifferent to his fate. After agreeing to come here, Dean had retreated again, almost as if he was afraid to hope. His attitude reminded Sam of the early days of the deal, when Dean had been so fatalistic and Sam had wanted to smack some sense into him. Things were different this time; Dean had gone into the pit for him. But they were done making sacrifices for each other. Sam wouldn’t bargain for Dean to be back to his old self. If Dean could find himself, Sam would help him. He understood now what his family’s bargaining with evil had cost them all.

He went outside several times to piss, but saw no outhouse, so he drew patterns in the red dirt, rivulets streaming through the dust. Dean left on occasion and Sam assumed he was doing the same. 

Nez seemed to have a good instinct for when the rocks cooled off or when the water skin was empty, and kept them well-stocked.

Sam grew bored and then hungry. He tried to ignore both, counting logs in the lodge to stave off his hunger, gulping draughts of water when it became too severe. Worry niggled at him . . . that they would fail, that Dean would be trapped in the twilight world of the horrors inside his mind. He missed their teasing and snarking at each other. Missed Dean’s off-key singing and horrible taste in music.

When nothing had seemed to help, Sam had known that the problem couldn’t be wished away and that the love he had for Dean wasn’t enough to bring his brother back. He would give nearly anything for Dean to call him a bitch again. But he didn’t care if that Dean never came back; just needed for Dean to feel whole.

Gradually his hunger faded, leaving him feeling empty. The boredom receded too, and in its wake he felt light, free of burdens for the first time in more months than he could recall.

As the sun wheeled around, the temperature began to cool. Sam worried as the hut grew darker, afraid of Dean’s night terrors. But the skin at the doorway lifted, and Nez was there. 

“We will go in a couple of hours to my grove of study. That place is protected by my beaver totem.”

“Beaver?” Dean snorted, and Sam wanted to cry again.

“Father Beaver can control powers both here and in the spirit realm. No other beings will pass its bounds.”

"Sam, I have this warning for you . . . do not fear anything that you find in your heart on this journey. If you let fear turn you from your path, then you will lose everything you have gained."

Nez turned to Dean. "You have gone beyond fear, little brother. But do not be afraid to ask your brother for what you need."

Sam wondered how Dean could be beyond fear when everything loud noise and darkened room cause him to panic and brought on the uncontrollable shaking. But the peace he was feeling was helping, spreading through him under Nez's calm words.

"Follow me, single file."

Dean walked behind Nez, and Sam brought up the rear. They walked further into Nez's property, entering a small woodlot full of more cottonwoods. They walked for several minutes before finally stopping at the entrance to a small clearing rocks thrust through the sandy loam. Smaller trees surrounded it and seemed to give off a sweet fragrance.

"Do the Dineh have demons?" Dean asked.

"Our demons are not yours, but we have terrors that stalk the Earth, skinwalkers. And there is Coyote, the Trickster, who sometimes aids the People and sometimes hinders us. He is a paradox."

"We know him." Sam could not keep the bitterness and grief out of his voice.

"Yes. He was trying to help you, but you could not see it."

"I don't need that kind of help." He didn't need to lose Dean before he had to, didn't need to find out what that road was like. He had walked it too long already.

"And yet, you learned something important though your waking mind does not understand it."

Nez held out his hands towards the glade, making an intricate series of motions. "Father Beaver is here. You must enter without preconceptions or expectations. Bring nothing but your spirits. Not even your clothes. But leave the fetish. The amulet." 

Sam and Dean glanced at each other, both unwilling to be so vulnerable in this unknown place. 

"About that . . . ," Sam began.

"No. This glade is protected."

Dean shrugged and unbuckled his belt. He’d agreed to go with Sam and he didn’t really care what kind of fucked up shit they had to do. If this helped Sam move on, he’d do it.

Sam hesitated, but if Dean was willing, he had no reason to complain. He shivered slightly in the cool desert night. Dean was throwing knives and guns into a pile. Sam didn't want to be barefoot. He didn’t want to be naked either, but barefoot seemed worse. Nez stood waiting as though he would wait forever for Sam to quit being a girl.

With a mental ‘fuck it,’ Sam shed his clothes, stuffing his socks carefully in his boots in hopes that no scorpions would take up residence while they were unoccupied. He carefully didn’t look at Dean, which was really weird, because he’d been in enough locker rooms over the years not to bother with a little male nudity. But Dean was so closed within himself since he’d returned, that Sam felt like he was invading Dean’s privacy just by looking. He didn’t like to think of how much Dean had been invaded while he had been in Hell.

He finished stripping and turned around, trying to ignore the cold of the night and his feeling of vulnerability. He hadn’t felt this awkward in his own body since he had been sixteen and had suddenly shot up past first Dean and then his father. Sam gritted his teeth, trying to find his center.

Nez stooped and hunted around in his pack, standing up with some bits of buckskin strung with feathers. Each band had one eagle feather, and some dried corn attached to it. There were other, smaller feathers filling in the gaps, fuzzy and white with brown bars like down from an owl’s breast. He handed two of them to Sam. “Put them on him; one wrist and one ankle.”

“Which?” Sam asked.

The shaman shrugged. “Your choice.”

Sam wondered if this was meant to be some sort of test. He looked into Dean’s eyes, but his brother was wearing his normal poker face, giving Sam no clues. With another mental shrug, Sam picked up Dean’s left wrist and quickly wrapped the leather around it. He slipped a finger under the band to make sure it wasn’t too tight and then knotted it.

Nez nodded. “Now the ankle.”

He couldn’t really see any way of doing that chore which wouldn’t involve more awkwardness, so Sam knelt at Dean’s feet. He kept his touch business-like, quickly securing the feathers to Dean’s right ankle. Dean flinched when Sam touched him, and that tight feeling in Sam’s chest came back.

Sam stood up, carefully not looking at Dean while he did so. Not so much to avoid looking at his package, cause dude, they’d been sharing quarters for years. But he knew how much Dean hated the claw marks that knotted and twisted his left leg. They both loathed seeing the evidence of Sam’s failures. 

The medicine man held out the last ring of feathers to Dean. “Around his bicep.”

Dean didn’t ask any questions. His warm fingers encircled Sam’s left bicep, working to knot the leather. Sam could feel the slight trembling and he wanted to cover Dean’s hands with his own. Wanted to stand in between Dean and anything that might even think about hurting him. 

Looking at them with approval, Nez nodded. “You are ready. I tell you that Father Beaver will allow no harm to come to you within this sacred glade.”

He walked out from under the trees to stand beneath the stars. Sam followed him, sucking in a surprised breath at the flowery fragrance that filled the small space. He didn’t recognize the scent, but he could hear rustling and rubbing as small trees bent under the night wind.

“The mimbre,” Nez said softly. “Desert willow. They too will guard you.”

In the center of the grove was a large Navajo blanket, no doubt brightly colored, but now washed out in the low light. Sam could just make out the design. Beside the blanket lay two more of the water skins, three clay bowls, and incongruously, three sealed Ziploc containers. To one side of the blanket was a small ring of stones, containing a fire, with more wood piled nearby.

“Lay down, Dean,” Nez requested. “Your head to the north, to Dibé Nitsaa.”

When Dean had shifted around on the blanket to Nez’s satisfaction, the shaman picked up the first of the clay bowls. He took out a wide artist’s boar-bristle brush. He handed the bowl to Sam, who saw that there appeared to be five colors of paint in it—black, blue, white and yellow, with a splotch of red in the middle.

“Dab the paint on him, black for north on his forehead, blue for Tsoodzil in the south on his feet. On his right hand shall be yellow and that is Doko’oosliid in the west. The white goes on his left hand for Tsisnaasjini’ and the east. Red for his navel, the center of his being.”

Sam did as he was told, carefully getting small bits of color on the brush and wiping each thoroughly on Dean’s skin where indicated. He suspected that mixing the colors through carelessness would not be a good idea. Finally, he handed the bowl back to Nez who put it away in his pack. Sam felt like he had been holding his breath. Dean hadn’t said a word, and Sam felt the ache of missing Dean’s voice again.

Nez handed the other two bowls to Sam. One contained a brownish meal-like substance, the other a thick green paste.

“The mushrooms you seek and the sap of the Devil’s Club cactus. You must mix the two with your fingers and then apply the mixture to Dean wherever his blood reaches his skin.”

“His pulse points?” Sam wanted to be sure he was doing this right. He had the same feeling he did when he was applying the paint . . . that these were powerful magics and he didn’t want to fuck anything up. The fact that these people worshipped Coyote didn’t add to his comfort level with the whole thing.

“Yes.”

Sam scraped the sap into the bowl with the mushrooms, kneading the substance between his fingers, getting the two completely mixed. He felt the reaction between the sap and the ‘shrooms under his fingers, could feel the paste getting hotter as it got thicker.

“It is ready,” Nez instructed.

Dean compliantly turned his wrist over and Sam stroked it with goop-covered fingers. He placed more on Dean’s other wrist, some on either side of his neck, on each temple and on the inside of each ankle. Dean remained still though his muscles had begun a fine shaking and Sam knew his brother was trying to control himself, to keep his fears away.

“Finished.” Sam said, holding the bowl out to Nez.

“No, there is his groin.”

Fuck, he really didn’t want to do that, and it was asking a hell of a lot of Dean. But Dean spread his legs slightly, and growled, “Get on with it.”

Sam could have cried with gratitude again, not just for the little taste of Dean being normal, but because even after breaking his promise about letting Dean go to hell, Dean still trusted him.

He daubed the paste on the delicate skin in the crease where Dean’s thighs met, careful not to touch his brother’s balls. Dean’s eyes were wide, pupils taking up nearly all the iris and they were getting glazed. The drug was already entering his blood stream.

“Now you, Sam. Your wrists and temples, and then put some on his tongue and then yours.”

Sam swiped his fingers over his wrists and then on his temples. He took about half the remaining paste on his fingers and held them out until Dean opened his mouth. Sam ran his fingers over Dean’s tongue, a little weirded out by the texture of it. But then Dean closed his mouth around Sam’s fingers, sucking the last of the mushrooms off them.

His breath was harsh by the time Dean finished and Sam thought that he might already be high too. He scooped up the last of the paste and licked his fingers, tasting the oddness of the mixture and something else that must have been Dean’s spit. He never thought he’d taste his brother’s saliva under any circumstances. He pushed the uncomfortable thought away to concentrate on helping Dean with this trip.

“Sit on your heels, and let Dean rest his head and shoulders on your thighs. Put your hands on either side of his head.”

They got into the correct position. Dean’s skin was warm under Sam’s fingers and there seemed to be a small frown making the skin tight that slowly eased away. Sam emptied his mind, not thinking of anything, trying to forget that he was naked in the middle of nowhere in a chilly New Mexican night. With his brother’s head in his lap.

Nez took out another eagle feather and a burning stick. He moved them in the air over their bodies, chanting slow and deep. Sam thought that Nez looked like he was disappearing, growing further and further away.

“I leave you now. Everything you will need for after is in the tubs. Fear nothing.”

After a while, Sam realized that the stars where falling, coming down from heaven to land on his skin. He watched them curiously, leaving little glints of stardust where they fell. His hands were covered with it and Dean’s naked body seemed to be glowing. Sam chuckled. 

“Fairy dust,” he whispered.

The glow grew, becoming a huge light, blinding Sam. When it left, he was on a vast plain. It wasn’t dark anymore, but that crepuscular pinkish sort of light that came just at dawn. No rising sun to be seen though. Sam started walking, feeling like he could walk over mountains at one stride. 

The place was featureless at first, just a big hunk of nothing. But gradually there were rocks, and then small plants. He realized that he was still naked but the rocks didn’t hurt his bare feet. Sam wandered aimlessly, still feeling as though he was the most powerful being in the world. His world. 

“I’m the boy king, motherfuckers!!” 

He stopped and did a little shimmying dance, laughing when his dick slapped his thighs. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so good.

Gradually though, he found that he was being led, being called. He tried to pay attention to the faint sound, turning this way and that. Finally he realized that it was someone screaming his name.

Moving more quickly now, Sam followed the faint noise, breaking into a run as it grew louder and he recognized Dean. The plain grew hillier, small rises getting in his way, but Sam stretched his legs out, determined that nothing would keep him from his brother. He came to the rim of a small hollow with grass-covered slopes. At the bottom was a clear pond. Dean was there, face buried in the fur of the biggest beaver Sam had ever seen.

A giggle wanted to force itself out, because in the past, Dean would have had something to say about that last statement. But Sam’s mirth died because the screaming hadn’t stopped. Dean was at the beaver’s shoulder, and honestly, the thing was as big as a car.

Greetings, little brother.

The voice echoed inside his head and Sam thought it was Nez for a moment, but the beaver was looking at him. Sam hesitated, because yeah, it was a fucking big beaver. With really long teeth. But Dean was there, and until the screaming disappeared, Sam wasn’t letting him go. 

“Dean?”

His brother turned around and now Sam wanted to scream. All of Dean’s injuries from the Hellhounds where back . . . blood dripping out of them, skin gaping. He was still naked too, which made it worse, seeing what had been done to his beauty. The familiar tightness in Sam’s chest grew unbearable and he thought his ribs might explode from the pressure of it.

Sam stumbled the rest of the way down the slope, frantic to stop the gushing blood. He was whimpering under his breath, but he couldn’t stop it, no no no . . . . 

He reached them, hands out to stop Dean’s fatal injuries. Dean looked at him, eyes blank. “Dean . . . please.”

The beaver shrugged, enormous front paw pushing Sam against its shoulder. Sam’s panic immediately eased, and warmth filled him, like being held by someone who loved him. He burrowed deeper into the soft fur, forgetting Dean for a moment. Their problems seemed remote.

You are not one of my children; you may yet win your own totems, but I cannot see your path. I will help you nonetheless.

The words echoed in Sam’s head, but he accepted them, knowing they came from the beaver. He should have been frightened of being near so much power, but all he felt was calm and reassured.

“Help him, please. He’s been through so much that he didn’t deserve.”

Heal your own heart and then heal your brother’s.

“I’m not hurt,” Sam protested, now confused. Dean’s pain wounded him, sure, but when Dean was well, Sam would be too.

Accept what is in your heart. Know that I will be with you.

The beaver and the dell disappeared. They seemed to be in some sort of factory with machines and noise, endless clanking and squealing of bare, untended metal. Dean was there, chained to a piece of grating. Sam approached to free him, but his gorge rose when he saw the pieces of metal embedded in Dean’s flesh. Dark blood dripped from Dean’s wounds, as though it were old and dying. 

“No! He got out!”

Sam wanted to scream that this was no help, putting them through it again, seeing his worst nightmares in the flesh. The whole scene abruptly got worse when Sam heard a familiar growling. He turned around, shocked that he was able to see them this time. 

The Hellhounds were huge, fire dripping from their jaws, claws like knives that clicked on the metal floor. Black fur seemed to glow with sickly phosphorescence. Fire flickered in their eyes, glowing red. They paced closer, intent on their prey. Sam looked frantically for a weapon, tugging on the metal railings, but all were secure. 

“No. I’m not letting you take him. I’m not watching this again.”

Fighting Hellhounds barehanded and in the nude would never have been his choice, but Sam refused to step away. They weren’t getting Dean. Not this time. The anger inside him grew into an uncontrollable rage. He got between Dean and the hounds, protective, guarding Dean with his life if need be.

To his left, one of them leaped. Sam waited, measuring the trajectory with his eyes. Things had slowed down, become sharper. At the last moment, he swung his fist, connecting with the hound’s huge head and sending it spinning off into the shadows. The other two of them snarled, but they had taken their eyes off of Dean and were marking him instead. Sam didn’t care, the fury inside him welling up again.

“That’s right, you hell bitches. Bring it.”

They lunged at him, both at once. Sam lashed out with his foot, a kick that connected with something, but they kept after him. Claws reached him, hot agony searing his arm. He took the pain and used it, made himself stronger with it. When the next set of claws sliced at him, he grabbed the limb with both hands. His muscles bulged and strained, but the bone gave way under his hands, breaking with a sharp crack. The hound screamed and Sam dropped it, turning to the last one.

It lifted its lip, a snarl that went into the lower registers of sound, so low that Sam could barely hear it. His hair stood on end, but he was too far into his battle rage to feel any fear. The hound leaped straight for Sam, claws extended and teeth bared. Sam wrapped his arms around it, pulling it close to him. The teeth sought his vulnerable neck but Sam clamped a hand around its muzzle. It was big, but he was bigger. Sam squeezed it, ignoring the claws raking his flank. The animal stopped trying to bite him and started trying to get away. Sam let go of its jaw and put his other arm around it, tightening the hound in a vice of his muscles. Finally he felt something in the hound give way and the animal went limp in his arms.

He tossed the body away and went to Dean. Sam was limping slightly from the gashes in his legs. Tears leaked down Sam’s face at the sight of the horrific wounds on his brother. He tried to be gentle but the spikes were so deeply embedded that they tore more flesh coming out. Dean was keening, a high-pitched cry that nearly broke Sam’s heart to hear it. Dean was finally free, stumbling forward into Sam’s arms.

“You got out, why are you still here?”

“Hurts, Sammy. Everything hurts. My eyes . . . burn all the time.”

Sam stroked his fingers carefully over Dean’s eyelids, closing them. He kissed each lid. “Just rest, Dean. I’ll be your eyes.”

“There’s always noise. It’s never quiet.”

Perhaps Hell was a place of machines and heat like they were in. Relentless noise. Sam placed his hands over Dean’s ears.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Not your fault.” 

But Dean wouldn’t look at him, and Sam broke a little more at that.

“No, it is. I promised you. I shouldn’t have been so stupid to get killed in the first place.”

Dean shuddered and then started screaming. “You left me here! It was years and years.”

“I know,” Sam soothed. “I know.”

He had to get Dean out of this place full of crashing machinery before he tried to tend to his brother’s wounds. Sam picked Dean up, alarmed by the slenderness of Dean’s frame. He hadn’t realized how little Dean had been eating these past months. Sam cradled Dean against his chest like he would a child, and turned trying to decide which way was the way out.

Not the direction the hounds had come from, Sam decided. He looked around, gritting his teeth against the pain in his legs. Sam picked a corridor at random and stepped forward, Dean in his arms. He staggered when his bare feet touched moss instead of the metal he had been expecting.

They were somewhere outside again, standing beside a clear pool of water. Trees hung over it, rocks surrounded it. A thick carpet of moss covered the ground. Sam set Dean down carefully, and then went to taste the water. As he crouched beside the spring, he noticed that the Hellhound claw marks on his legs had disappeared and he was completely healed. Excited, he whirled around to check on his brother, but Dean was still a bloody mess.

Sam dipped a hand into the water and brought it to his mouth to taste it. The liquid was cool and good. He dipped up more in his hands and went back to Dean. Sam poured some of the water over the worst wound in his side, washing the blood away. The skin was brutally ripped, and Sam put his hands on the gash, trying to close it. The edges of the ripped skin moved together under his hands and some of the tears that Sam had been holding back fell out of his eyes. He leaned down, pressing his lips to the still-raw injury. Sam kissed every part of it, and when he raised his head, the skin was whole, unblemished and healthy.

Dean’s keening died away into a small whimper. “Help me.”

“I will, Dean.”

With hope surging through him, Sam went back for more water. He washed all of his brother’s injuries, using his hands to mend them and following with his mouth, kissing every place on Dean’s body. Sam didn’t care where he was kissing, all he could think was that something was finally healing Dean. As he worked, it seemed that sometimes the border between Dean and the physical world were vanishing. Sometimes Sam’s hands or mouth sank into Dean like he wasn’t there.

Sam was kissing a hurt on Dean’s shoulder when he fell into something. Dean had disappeared again, and Sam panicked, screaming his name. But this place wasn’t like anything he had been in before. 

It was a place of light and warmth, and Sam felt as though he were wrapped in a protective blanket. The whole place seemed to echo with his name, saying ‘Sam’ like a benison. Sam had never seen anything so beautiful, so perfect. The fear of losing Dean again retreated and Sam relaxed. He felt . . . loved and he didn’t understand it. 

He tried to move and he wasn’t walking, but floating instead. But then he came to a place that seemed wrong. Hurt oozed out of it, grief and anguish. Sam put his arms around the place, trying to comfort it. The wrong area vanished and there was love again, steady and secure.

Sam recognized it that time, and understood where he was. He had entered Dean’s soul. He was astounded at the beauty and purity of his brother’s spirit. Shame rose in him . . . shame and guilt and the overwhelming grief that he had let Dean go into Hell for him. Sam sat down and put his head on his arms, the knot of emotions in his chest giving way. He sobbed, unhampered by the need to be strong for his brother. His grief passed finally, and when it was over, Sam felt whole.

Standing up, Sam searched for other injured parts of Dean’s soul. When he came to a hurt place, he sent the love he felt for his brother into it and watched it disappear. As he worked, the slow dawning realization came to him that he loved Dean with everything he had. Loved him as more than a brother, loved him as a soul mate, a life mate. Yeah, loved him like that. Sam understood his own heart then, understood what Coyote had been trying to show him.

“I love you, Dean.” 

Sam spoke into the warmth and beauty, unable to contain what he felt, but knowing that he would never burden his brother with this emotion. Nez had told him to accept what he found in his heart, and Sam resolved that this love, no matter how inappropriate, would not lead to guilt or grief. It was a part of him, made him who he was. It was his greatest weakness, but it was also his greatest strength.

Then he was falling again.

With a jolt, Sam came back into his own body, back into the real world. The fire had burned low but it still gave out warmth in the desert night. Sam found that he and Dean had moved during their trip. They were still on the Navajo blanket, but he was sitting on his ass and Dean was curled in his lap.

Dean raised his head. “Sam?”

“I’m here, Dean.”

“Fuck, Sam . . . I was inside you, in your soul.”

Dean’s eyes were clear, sparkling. Sam felt joy welling up in him. He hadn’t seen Dean look like that years. He could see the shining beauty of Dean’s soul and the newly discovered love that Sam felt wanted to overflow Sam’s own spirit. The borders between their two selves appeared uncertain, as though being within each other had joined them in ways Sam didn’t understand. But Dean smiled at him and Sam’s resistance crumbled.

He brought their lips together, unthinking. Dean’s mouth under his was warm and firm. His lips were slightly chapped. Sam scraped his own lips against the roughness and Dean’s mouth parted for him. Tongues met, slid and tangled. Lips pressed in harshly, squeezed against teeth. Sam’s breath grew ragged, but Dean didn’t push him away.

Sam’s lips were a little sore when they finally broke the kiss.

“I’d say that’s the gayest thing you’ve ever done, but I hate to restate the obvious.”

Much as Sam was glad to hear Dean sounding so normal, he cringed, pulling back from their embrace. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt his brother again.

“Sorry,” Sam mumbled. He waited for the rest of the inevitable teasing.

“Hey.” Dean’s hand was gentle on his jaw, turning Sam back to face him. “Didn’t say I was complaining. I need this. I need you.”

“Dean, I . . . .”

“Shut the fuck up.” Dean’s hand covered his mouth. “If this gets any sappier, you’re never getting into my pants.”

Sam snorted. “What pants?”

“Exactly.” Dean squirmed around on Sam’s lap, rubbing things together, and it felt so good that Sam’s eyes rolled back in his head a little and his fingers clenched hard on Dean’s hips. 

"Thirsty." Dean panted out, and moved around until he was straddling Sam's hips and could reach one of the water skins. He wriggled against his brother grinning at the look on Sam's face as their cocks slid together.

He made Sam drink from the skin first, long, deep gulps, and he watched the way Sam's throat moved as he swallowed. Then it was his turn, and he drained it dry, taking a couple of mouthfuls from the second one too.

Sam's hand had come to rest on the small of his back, and he looked up at Dean and bit down gently on a nipple. Dean gasped and started and looked down, wide eyed at Sam's smirking face.

Sam took the water skin from him and put it back down on the ground by the blanket, noticing the tubs the shaman had left for them. 

"Nez said we'd need those after."

Dean eyed the tubs with hopeful curiosity.

"Food?"

Sam shrugged and opened one which turned out to be full of dried fruit. They both fell on the food gratefully, wolfing down most of the contents of the tub before putting it aside and investigating the next one. It was full of a clear gel like substance which Sam tasted and declared it not edible, much to Dean's disappointment, although given the consistency of the stuff and the situation they were in, Sam did have an idea of what it was meant to be used for. It smelled like the aloe stuff he bought for sunburns.

He took the lid off the third tub and sniffed at the dark substance warily, but Dean dove right in and stuck his fingers into it, raising them to his mouth. He groaned blissfully.

"It's honey." He licked his fingers clean, and stuck them back in the pot, but this time, he reached towards Sam, slightly hesitant. Yes, this was Sam, but this was new. He touched his honeyed fingers to Sam's lips and his eyes widened as his brother's tongue lapped at them before his lips closed around them and he sucked them into his mouth. His tongue curled around them, stripping the honey from them, a hunger for more than food driving him.

Dean sat perfectly still as Sam licked and sucked, not sure he remembered how to breathe and when he did, it was to moan softly, a sound which made the hairs on the back of Sam's neck prickle.

Sam gazed at Dean, pupils blown wide and he scooped up some of the honey but instead of feeding it to Dean, he put it in his own mouth, and pulled Dean closer to kiss him. Dean's tongue snaked out, lapping and exploring Sam's mouth as they shared the sweet nectar. He dug his hands into Sam's hair and held him steady as he squirmed in his lap.

Sam sighed and Dean felt the sound as well as heard it. He almost stilled at the odd sensation, holding Sam close as they continued to kiss and he opened his eyes to gaze into Sam's and felt himself melting into his brother. 

Sam pushed him carefully back and down to the blanket, placing a kiss on the point of Dean's shoulder where the worst of his scars ran, a deep, jagged set of claw marks running down to his sternum. Dean shuddered and Sam looked up at him as his tongue flicked out over the ridges of skin.

Dean swallowed, breathing deeply, big painful breaths to begin with, but Sam's kisses were warm and full of the same love he'd healed Dean's soul with. Instead of pushing him away, his fingers tentatively wound themselves into Sam's hair and he arched up against Sam's mouth as it moved over every inch of damaged skin and further, deeper, lips and tongue melting into Dean's flesh. He hated the scars, what they represented, what they reminded him of, but Sam's mouth was searingly hot, leaving his brand on them, claiming them from the horror that had put them there.

Sam moved lower, sanctifying every inch of scarred flesh, then lower still, trailing kisses over Dean's hip until he reached the marks on his leg, and slowly, patiently, worked over every inch with his mouth.

"Sammy ..." Dean sighed out his name and Sam looked up at him, splayed out on the blanket, eyes darkened with desire.

Sam wanted to taste more, wanted to taste every inch of his brother's skin, but he was drawn to Dean's cock, hard and red against the pale, sun deprived skin of his stomach. He nosed through the hairs at the base of it, drinking in the musky scent that got his cock jumping. He rubbed his cheek against the steel hard muscle covered in silky soft skin, groaning at the heat of it, Dean's whimper going straight to his own cock and making it throb almost painfully.

Sam lapped at the damp tip, tonguing the slit before opening his mouth and wrapping his lips around the head, suckling on it.

Dean's hands grasped handfuls of dark hair, not to pull Sam away, but to steady himself, and he had to stop himself from thrusting up hard into Sam's mouth. Sam helped, holding Dean down by the hips so he could learn his brother at his own pace, the feel and taste of his and the sounds Sam could pull from him when he scraped his teeth lightly along the underside of the straining cock.

Dean's hands in Sam's hair became frantic. 

"Please, need you inside before ..."

Sam pulled off and nuzzled Dean's hip, looking up at him, needing to see the truth in his eyes.

"You sure?"

Dean nodded.

"Finish it, Sammy."

Sam slid up Dean's body, pushing his legs apart and settling between them. He reached over and dipped his fingers into the aloe, ducking his head down to kiss Dean's mouth as he slipped his hand down behind his brother's balls and pressed a finger against his hole. Dean jumped and Sam immediately began to pull away, but he was held fast.

"Cold!" Dean's eyes were full of nervous amusement and he nipped at Sam's lip. "Don't stop, don't ..."

One of Sam's fingers slipping past the tight ring of muscle silenced Dean and Sam watched his brother's face intently as he gently fucked him with it.

"Relax." Sam instructed and Dean did his best as Sam pushed deeper, curling his finger and pressing against Dean's insides until Dean jack-knifed off the blanket, grabbing the back of Sam's neck and pulling him close, clashing their lips together. He mauled Sam's mouth, panting harshly in between kisses that left a copper tang in his mouth and Sam eased another finger inside him, awed by Dean's reactions, by the fact that he could do this to Dean, he could make Dean writhe and whimper and beg for more.

Sam added a third finger, stretching him, preparing him, his own control slipping fast, and Dean wriggled his hips, aiding the process and silently asking for more. When Sam sat back, Dean looked bereft at the loss until Sam took another handful of aloe and wrapped his fingers around his cock, slicking it.

Dean's breath hitched as he watched Sam's hand move slowly up and down the solid column of muscle in his hand. His eyes raked over his brother's body, devouring every inch, craving the feel of it against his again. He looked up at Sam's face and saw an edge of possessiveness to the love and lust that shone in his eyes. Dean shuddered, needing to give himself up completely, wanting Sam to possess him in a way that no demon could. Sam already had his heart and now he had his soul. All that was left was his body and Dean gave that willingly.

"Sammy." He groaned and lay back against the blanket. He pulled his knees to his chest, offering himself up to his brother and with a fractured moan, Sam was on him, body holding Dean's legs in place, freeing his hands to grasp at Sam, pulling him closer, and Sam needed no more urging. The head of his cock breached Dean, making him cry out, his back arching. Sam growled, low in the back of his throat. He needed this as much as Dean did, and the way Dean's hot silky flesh gripped him, held him tight, spurred him on to take what he needed and he thrust deeper, every movement taking him deeper.

The edge of the trip still lingered around the edges of their consciousness, and as Sam entered him, Dean felt the warm, safe place he'd found inside of Sam envelope him again, surrounding him with a love so deep and true it made his heart ache. He didn't know where he ended and Sam began anymore, there were no barriers, not even skin. Sam was inside him in ways that went deeper than the physical yet intensified the way Sam's cock was splitting him open, forcing him to give up every last shred of control. He held on, wanting to stay in that moment for as long as he could, but Sam had other ideas and wrapped his still slicked hand around Dean. 

"Let it go, Dean."

The orgasm that ripped through him at Sam’s command was like nothing he’d ever experienced. As he came, splattering Sam’s chest, a blazing white flash tore through him and every cell in his body blew apart, became atoms on the breeze that softly blew round the canyon, and for a heartbeat he was nothing but dust ...

Sam swelled inside him, thrusting frantically as he came, crying out his brother's name, calling Dean back to him, and with a jolt, Dean was whole again. He wrapped shaking arms around Sam and held him close, nuzzling his hair and stroking his back, not wanting to feel the inevitable emptiness that he knew would fill him when Sam's softening cock slipped from his body. But it wasn't like that. Physically, there was a space where Sam belonged now, but he could still feel Sam with him, inside him, and he knew now that however far apart they might be, he'd never be alone. A part of Sam would always be with him.

He smiled as they lay together for a while, wrapped in the blanket, until another urge became to strong to ignore.

"Sam?"

"Mmm hmm?"

"I'm hungry."

Sam searched around with one hand for the tub of dried fruit and fed Dean an apricot. Dean chewed on it and swallowed it down.

"Pity Nez didn't leave a couple of burgers to go with those." Dean hinted. Sam was warm against him, but lying on the ground was starting to get uncomfortable and he was starving, a sensation he hadn't felt in a long time.

Sam propped himself on an elbow and kissed Dean's chest.

"There was a diner back on the highway. We could stop there after we give Nez his stuff back." Sam's stomach chose that moment to show Dean wasn't the only one who was hungry.

Dean grinned at him.

"Sounds good." He kissed the top of Sam's head and they both got to their feet, searching round for clothes. "A cheeseburger, maybe two, with extra cheese. And fries. Lots and lots of fries." Dean fantasized as he dressed.

Sam gathered up the blanket and the tubs, glancing at Dean every now and then.

"Sam." Dean eyed him as he buttoned his shirt. "What's on your mind?"

Sam put the blanket down and put a hand on Dean's hip, something Dean had no objection to.

"I, uh, I'm glad this helped. I'm not expecting you to be fixed ... I know this doesn't mean ... you know how much I love you, right? Whatever happens now ..." Sam faltered, finding it hard to find the words and Dean put his fingers over his lips again.

"I know, Sammy, you don't need to say anything. I felt it all, I can still feel it." Dean placed a hand on his heart, his voice suddenly gruff. "Here. Lets just take this one day at a time, yeah? And I can't promise they'll all be good days, but I’m not gonna shut you out anymore, that I will promise." He coughed and composed himself, smiling a smile that lit up his eyes, wanting Sam to understand he was more hopeful about fighting his own demons than he had been in a long time. "So no more chick flick moments. At least until we get to the first motel we hit after the diner."

"You don't want to go back to Bobby's?" Sam felt giddy at the bright smile on Dean’s face, feeling the same hope in his heart that he saw in Dean’s eyes.

"Yeah, course I do, but there's things I want to do to you first that I don't think Bobby would take kindly to overhearing."

"Oh." Sam flushed and Dean smiled smugly at him.

"Do you think that Nez guy would give us some of those mushrooms to go?"

"Dean! They were part of a sacred ritual!"

"Yes, but ..."

"Don't even think about asking him." Sam warned as he headed off the way they had come in with the blanket rolled up in his arms.

"Okay. Bitch." Dean grumbled with a smirk, and caught up to his brother, jostling his shoulder as they walked until Sam grinned back at him and gave him what he wanted to hear.

"Jerk." 

Dean laughed, long and hard, and Sam didn't think he'd ever heard a more beautiful sound.

**Author's Note:**

> We wrote this story many years ago and I don't remember which of us wrote what. Also, it's been thoroughly jossed by the show, and it was speculation at the time we wrote it. We're aware that things in it may not be acceptable 12 years later.


End file.
